


a scent and a sound

by mwestbelle



Series: Scent and a Sound 'verse [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Community: werewolfbigbang, M/M, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/pseuds/mwestbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an urban fantasy world where werewolves can't hold a decent job and no roommate wants them, werewolf Frank is looking for an apartment. He finds one with Mikey Way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a scent and a sound

**Author's Note:**

> **warnings:** scentkink, explicit descriptions of preparing/eating meat, werewolf politics
> 
>  **notes:** Thank you forever to the fabulous [anoneknewmoose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anoneknewmoose/pseuds/anoneknewmoose) who whipped this story into shape in the big and small ways ♥ and of course, to all the werewolfbigbang mods for making this awesome challenge possible! And yes, the title/cut text is from Duran Duran. No comment!
> 
> Mix is [here](http://mwestbelle.livejournal.com/166940.html).
> 
> (Originally posted November 12, 2010)

**I’m a shitty roommate**.

 _So, I can’t keep a roommate more than two weeks. I have weird hours and I’m up all night playing loud music and I’m shit with anything with a plug. Thought I’d try being upfront about it, and maybe someone else who’s a shitty roommate will read this and want to come be shitty together. Appreciation for Star Wars and 80s cartoons a bonus._

The ad doesn’t end with _Humans only_ or _No dogs allowed_ or _Moonies need not apply_ or any of the snide, hateful bullshit that’s popped up in every other ad Frank’s read. And the guy e-mails back fast when Frank asks to set up a time to come check out the apartment, which is either a good sign or a bad one. Frank’s not sure, but if this is his only real option, he’s not going to psych himself out over e-mails.

The building is in a decent neighborhood, and there’s a moon shelter about a block away. Frank is cautiously optimistic, but he’s not going to set his heart on anything until he actually meets this guy. Just because he didn’t say anything in his ad doesn’t mean he’s not a judgmental asshole like the rest of them.

Frank knocks on the door and the guy who answers the door isn’t quite what he expected. Skinny with glasses and a mess of blondish hair: he doesn’t exactly look a party all night guy. More like a study all night guy. But he’s wearing a Ramones t-shirt, so maybe.

“Hey. You’re Frank?” Frank nods and the guy offers him his hand. “I’m Mikey.”

Frank shakes his hand and heads into the apartment. It’s not anything special, but it’s not covered in zebra-print shag carpeting or anything. There don’t seem to be any bugs.

“Living room and kitchen,” Mikey says, narrating their walking tour. Frank is momentarily distracted by low slung jeans, but he peers into the kitchen. It’s miniscule compared to his mom’s, but he has to remember that it would just be two guys living and cooking here. Not he and his mom plus two aunts, an uncle, and two cousins. “Uh, bathroom is over here. This is my bedroom. And this one would be yours.”

It’s not really the room that’s so great. It’s knowing that it’s _his_ , without baby cousins sticking their hands into everything or his mom trying to shepherd him out of bed in the morning even though he’s a grown-ass man. Frank rests a hand on the door frame, leaning in.

“We’ve got hot water, most of the time.” Mikey stands behind him and keeps ticking things off, tugging at the hem of his shirt while he thinks. “Uh, washing machine in the basement. There’s some storage. No parking, though.”

“I don’t have a car.” Frank turns around to face Mikey. It sounds good, and maybe he should shop around, but he’s pretty sure there aren’t any other apartments like this. Not for people like him, at least. And he has to lick his lips to moisten them before he says, “You know I’m a werewolf, right?”

“Oh.” Mikey blinks at him. Frank’s heart drops. “Are you going to bite me?”

“Uh, no.”

“Are you going to pay your rent?”

“Yeah.” Frank’s got a job, mostly, the part-time shit kind that lets him take a week off every month. It’s the only kind he’ll be able to get until the Osbourne Bill passes. _If_ it passes. The American Werewolf Association does what it can, but it’s not going to be enough forever.

Mikey shrugs. “Then who gives a shit?”

 _Everybody_ , Frank wants to say. Instead, he says, “You’d be surprised.”

“I have this friend.” Mikey shrugs again, and Frank is imagining Mikey growing up across the street from a pack, knowing the wolfkid at his high school. That’s how it usually works, with people. The ones who’ll tell you they’re supporting the Osbourne Bill are the ones who knew someone. But Mikey goes on, “He’s not, y’know. But he’s really passionate. About stuff. My brother too.”

“Oh.” Frank doesn’t know of a lot of human werewolf activists, but it doesn’t surprise him that they exist out there somewhere. And if that’s the kind of people Mikey is friends with, it seems like a good sign for his housing choices.

“They’re into it, I don’t know.”

“Well. It’s a big thing. I guess.” Frank has never considered himself an activist, but it’s not like he can pretend it’s not important. The only way that he’s ever going to get the chance to get ahead is some push.

“They do rallies around here sometimes.” Mikey folds his arms over his chest. His t-shirt pulls up a little bit to reveal a few inches of hipbones and belly. “I’ve gone to a few. It’s, y’know, inspiring.”

He doesn’t sound that inspired, and Frank’s not sure what exactly Mikey gets out of these rallies. But the last thing he wants to do is stir things up when he hasn’t even signed a lease yet. Mikey hasn’t asked him questions or thrown him out of the apartment; that’s about all he needs right now.

“So, what next?” Frank rubs his arm, tracing over his tattoos. “Do I need to make an offer?”

“Do you want to?” Mikey smiles a little bit, and Frank hopes that’s a good thing. It feels like a good thing.

“Yeah. I mean. I have…credit checks, and stuff. If you need it.”

“I trust you,” Mikey says. He’s still smiling, like it’s kind of a joke, but Frank has never heard that before in his life.

*

Frank comes home from work to find a guy he doesn’t know sitting on the couch. He closes the door slowly and the guy looks up. He’s got dark hair to his shoulders and a wide pale face. “Hi. I don’t live here.”

“I know,” Frank says, setting his bag down next to the wall. “I do.”

“Oh. Huh.” The guy looks surprised, even though Frank is pretty sure that the fact he had keys to the door was a pretty good indicator. “You’re Frank. The werewolf.”

Frank flinches slightly, but he can’t exactly deny it. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“That’s _so_ cool.” The guy grins at him and pushes his hair back from his face. “I have so many questions.”

“Do you?” Mikey didn’t ask him any questions. But Mikey also didn’t tell him that there would be strange men hanging around the apartment and asking him questions. “Who are you?”

The guy blinks at him and looks honestly confused. “I’m Gerard.”

Frank never knew that living in the real world was going to be so difficult. He has a sneaking suspicion that it isn’t this weird outside of their apartment. “And you’re Mikey’s…?”

“Yes,” Gerard says, sounding relieved. He grins, then frowns again. “I’m his brother.”

Frank feels oddly relieved as well. It doesn’t really make a different, but he believes in family. He can trust family. He comes to sit on the couch next to Gerard, and god, it feels good to get off his feet finally.

Gerard shifts, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. It’s a question-asking position, and Frank braces for it. “How do you feel about humans involved in werewolf rights groups?”

“Uh.” Frank licks his lips. It’s not one of the usual questions like _does it hurt to become a wolf_ or _have you ever killed anyone?_ “It’s cool?”

“Really?” Gerard grins. He relaxes a little bit. “I’ve read a lot of articles about the inherently appropriative nature of humans interfering in non-human issues.”

“Oh.” Frank has never read articles about werewolf rights. It’s just his life.

“I’m sorry.” Gerard’s grin falters and he frowns slightly. “You don’t need to educate random people about your experiences.”

“You’re not random,” Frank offers. “You’re Mikey’s brother.”

“I am.” Gerard tilts his head. Frank isn’t really sure what to expect from this conversation anymore. “You’ve got a lot of tattoos.”

That’s the other question Frank usually gets. Half of the reason he got them was to divert attention. At least people could ask him about shit he had some kind of choice in. It hasn’t exactly worked out how he plans, but he loves his ink. “Yeah. You like them?”

“Definitely.” Gerard licks his lips and reaches forward. “May I?” Frank nods, and Gerard traces his thumb over a few of the dark lines.

“Do you have any?” Gerard shudders, thumb skidding on top of Frankenstein, and Frank snorts. “Wimp.”

“There’s nothing natural about liking being stabbed over and over with a needle.” Gerard wrinkles his nose, but he’s smiling. Frank can’t help but smile back. “Do you like comics?”

Mikey comes home while Gerard is in the middle of describing the third act of the series he’s planning. “Oh god, good thing I’m here to rescue you.”

Gerard makes an offended sound and Frank grins. “I never need rescuing from comics talk. Don’t worry about me.”

Mikey snickers and calls back from the kitchen, “You say that now. You just met him.”

Gerard flips Mikey off from afar and gives Frank a doleful look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trap you.”

“It’s fine. Not a big deal.” Frank smiles and shrugs. His roommate’s brother probably shouldn’t count as a new friend, but it isn’t like he has lots of other options. “I like comics, like I said.”

Gerard grins, and Mikey sticks his head out of the kitchen. “If you’re going to eat my food, get off your lazy ass and help.”

“Asshole little brother.” Gerard sighs, but he obeys, pushing up off the couch. Frank gets up to follow him.

In the kitchen, Mikey’s got a pot of water boiling. He pours in a box of pasta and nods to Gerard. “There’s sauce in the cabinet.”

“You don’t have to,” Frank says, when Gerard goes to fetch it. “I mean. You don’t even live here.”

Gerard grabs the sauce and turns, gesturing with it. “That is a fantastic point, Frank.”

“Shut up, fucking mooch.” Mikey stirs the pot, making sure the noodles are all submerged, the smirks over at Frank. “Don’t let the tortured artist act fool you. He is totally capable of feeding himself, so if he wants to come over here and eat _our_ food, he’s going to work for it.”

“You’re the worst brother ever,” Gerard tells Mikey, but he’s already grabbing a pot and dumping the sauce in. It’s clearly a well-known ritual. Once the sauce is bubbling, Gerard turns back to Frank. “Do you need help with your dinner, Frank?”

“Uh.” Frank had been planning to share the pasta, but he blinks. “I guess I could—“

“He’s eating with us, Gee,” Mikey interrupts, before Frank has to flounder for something.

“There isn’t any meat in the sauce.” Gerard frowns. “I can help you cook something up.”

“Uh,” Frank says again. He’s pretty sure that any bond he might have forged with Gerard is quickly being eroded by his terrible conversation skills. “I’m vegan.”

Gerard’s eyes go huge. “ _Really?_ ”

“Oh my god,” Mikey says, pushing Gerard aside to get some plates out of the cabinet and hand them to Frank. “You might as well set the table. You’re going to get an earful now.”

“Okay?” Frank takes the plates and heads over to the table. Sure enough, Gerard starts talking before he can even turn.

“How do you find that your dietary choices affect your lupine urges?”

“Well. I don’t?” Frank wrinkles his nose and starts setting the plates out. He lines each one up carefully with the chair it’s in front of; the order makes him feel better. “It’s just…what I do, I guess.”

“That’s fascinating.” Gerard turns away from the stove and leans against the counter. He’s got a light in his eyes and a slightly manic smile. “I was reading an article about the importance of protein last week. It says that, uh, your metabolism works differently than mine does? So you need more protein. For something. The science parts kind of lost me.”

“I take supplements.” Frank goes to grab silverware from the drawer. He comes back with a fistful of knives and forks. “And, uh, the week of I have to eat meat. But I don’t count that.”

“You’re really great,” Gerard says. Frank blushes and glances towards Mikey to see if this is some kind of joke, but Mikey’s still stirring, like nothing is out of the ordinary. Nothing about Gerard’s face or tone implies he’s being anything less than earnest. “You should start a blog.”

Gerard, Frank is learning, is an interesting guy. He talks almost nonstop during dinner, though food keeps disappearing from his plate. The only breaks he gets to chew are while he’s nodding emphatically at whatever answers Frank manages to stumble through. He feels weird and kind of stupid talking to Gerard, like Gerard knows more about him than he himself does. But Gerard never drops his bright interested expression, and Frank can’t do anything but believe Gerard actually is that genuinely into what Frank has to say. It makes him want to talk like no one else’s blank interrogation ever has.

“No one in my family has ever lived on their own,” he tells Gerard while they take the dishes off the table. Mikey disappeared as soon as dinner was done, proclaiming that the cook doesn’t have to clean. Frank isn’t sure boiling noodles counts as cooking, but whatever. “My, um. We’re a pretty tight-knit…pack, you know.”

“That’s pretty common, isn’t it?” Gerard doesn’t even flinch at the term, make the _oh_ face that people do when they remember that he’s not quite like them. “I’ve heard the AWA is considering starting some kind of funding program to help, y’know, young people like you find apartments.”

“I don’t know how much good it would do.” Frank sets his plate in the sink and takes the other stack of plates from Gerard. “I mean, the association does great stuff, but a lot of us just don’t want to leave.” He can’t imagine someone telling his uncle that he and his sisters shouldn’t live in the same house.

Gerard nods like he understands, and in this case, Frank knows he does. Gerard seems perfectly content to stay in his mom’s basement; he and Frank have some kind of connection on that level at least. They know what it’s like. “It seems like it would be more useful to put that kind of funding towards beefing up like, a database. So people who _want_ to go can find somewhere.”

Frank runs the faucet to let some of the dishes soak and wage some preemptive warfare against crusty sauce. “That would be really great. That’s a good idea.” He knows that he was obscenely lucky to find Mikey, and now Gerard too. If he’d moved in somewhere else, it’s pretty likely he would have given up by now.

“Thanks.” Gerard grins and leans against the counter, bracing his palms against the Formica. “I saw it on the _Lunar Review_ last week.”

“Resources would be good too.” Frank turns off the faucet and faces Gerard with a little smile. “Like, people you can talk to, if it gets hard.”

“Werewolf helpline.” Gerard nods. “I like it. You should send that to someone.”

Frank flushes from the compliment, but that’s not him. He knows that some of his cousins in another pack spend half of their lives writing letters to the AWA and canvassing for the Osbourne bill, but his mom always taught him to keep his head down. All he needs to do is live his life.

*

His first moon with Mikey is also his first moon alone, as if it wasn’t fucking terrifying enough.

“You were never, like, on vacation or something?” Mikey just barely blinks at him, looking up from his laptop for about a second.

“Uh, no,” Frank says. “We pay pretty close attention to this shit.”

“Makes sense.” Mikey clicks and wrinkles his nose faintly. “What year did _Hopeless Romantic_ come out?”

“Ninety-four.” It’s usually refreshing that Mikey doesn’t panic about any of Frank’s crazy wolf stuff, but this time it’s just freaking Frank out more. Mikey _should_ be afraid of him. Frank’s afraid of himself. “My mom says I can come home for it, if I need to.”

“Do you?” Mikey looks up for real this time, but he just looks interested. “There’s a shelter down the street.”

“Yeah.” Frank checked the shelter out before he moved in, of course, and it’s a pretty nice facility. Individual cells with lockers that actually lock. Clean. It’s one of the AWA’s projects to encourage integration. But it will be the first time he’s gone through the change anywhere but the handmade moon shelter in his mom’s basement. The first time he’s done it without his family surrounding him, keeping him sane and keeping him in line. He always knew his place at home, and a wolf on the verge of change who doesn’t know his rank—that’s dangerous. “It’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Mikey taps a few keys, rearranging playlists or deleting duplicates or whatever he does during his weekly music organization session. “If you need to get to your mom’s, I can get you a ride.”

“I. Thanks.” Frank smiles and he can already feel the itch under his fingernails, the ache starting in the small of his back. He doesn’t know how the fuck he’s supposed to do this on his own. “Thanks, man.”

Mikey smiles back at him. “Just let me know.” Frank keeps rubbing his thumb over the ridge of his knuckles, until Mikey speaks again. “So, are you going to go all, _rawr_?”

Frank wrinkles his nose, smirking at Mikey’s stupid face. “Sort of. I mean, it’s a rough week.”

“I saw a special,” Mikey says, and he’s the only person Frank’s ever known who can actually say that neutrally. “But it seemed kind of far-fetched.”

“That’s pretty likely.” Frank swallows, flexing his hand and trying to figure out the best way to describe what it was like to someone who could never know. “But maybe not? It’s pretty crazy.”

“It said that it’s like--” Mikey pauses, and Frank honestly believes that he’s trying to remember exactly what the show said, not trying to figure out some way to disguise the fact he’s talking shit. “Like you’re a wolf already, just still in a person’s body.”

Frank snorts. “I’m always a wolf in a person’s body if you look at it like that. No, it’s. It’s intense, but I’m still…conscious, I guess? I’m still me. But I’m not…I’m less in control. Sort of.” He huffs out a sigh; it’s hard to explain this kind of shit.

But Mikey nods. “I get it. Like, it’s a feral you.”

“Yeah.” Frank nods too, a little more enthused now that Mikey _gets_ it. Even when he can’t use his own fucking words. It’s not like anyone ever actually asked him to talk about his “condition” before. “It’s just different.”

“You can totally handle that,” Mikey says, and Frank knows he should laugh in Mikey’s face. But Mikey says it with such authority, not like he’s trying to convince Frank. It’s like he already knows, and it makes Frank feel a tiny bit better. Maybe he’s not going through it alone.

The slight sense of safety totally disappears when Frank wakes up on Monday morning, of course, once he’s truly under the influence of the moon and on his own for the first time.

He doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know it’s happening. He can feel it in every bone of his body, and he can _smell_ it. Well, he can smell the apartment: layers upon layers of coffee, stale sweat and piss, a waft of body odor and of dollar store shampoo, old cheese and hops and something that might have been green once but was a rotten purple now. His nose twitches, then he opens his eyes. His vision isn’t like his sense of smell, not enhanced in the same mind-blurring way, but he sees differently. That’s all he can really say about it; when he’s not under the moon, he’d be hard-pressed to say what exactly changes. But his ceiling looks different, and so does everything else he sees.

Mikey is in his bedroom. Frank knows, because he can smell him, pinpoint him, and it stirs a low burn in his groin. It isn’t quite arousal, not yet. But it’s a wild part of Frank that says _yes._ It says _want_ in something so much deeper than words.

He goes to the kitchen instead, even though his nose twitches with the scent of Mikey’s dirty sheets, covered in crumbs (crackers and cookies) and seeped in dried sweat and a few other fluids. Mikey should really wash those.

This morning is easy. Frank pushes aside bags of frozen vegetables that no one ever eats and a few sad empty ice cube trays to find the bacon he has buried in the back of the freezer. The one week of the month that he _can’t_ stay vegan. He tried a few times back in high school, when he was way too stubborn for his own good. But it’s tough enough to do it the rest of the month—once the moon is on him, he doesn’t stand a chance. He accepts that now, even if he doesn’t like it, and he figures that for this week he’s definitely more than half wolf, and no one would say a wolf eating a pig is anything but natural. He defrosts the bacon in the microwave and sets six strips in the pan on the stove. Once the scent of it hits him, it’s easy enough to distract himself from Mikey. It won’t be later in the week, but for now, meat beats sex no questions asked.

Mikey comes in before the bacon is done, and Frank basically gets punched in the olfactory. He’s not used to being around people right now, and Mikey smells so different. It kind of makes him marvel that he can’t smell all of this on Mikey when he’s not under the moon; it’s so obvious.

“You weren’t kidding about the bacon,” Mikey says, and pours himself a cup of coffee. “I kind of thought you were.”

Frank pushes the bacon around with the spatula, licking his lips when the fat sizzles and spits. It’s the kind of sound that makes him wince in his everyday life, but now he seriously might drool. “I don’t kid about meat.”

“Apparently.” Mikey sips his coffee, and Frank turns back to face the pan, making sure to inhale the scent of the cooking bacon. It’s the only way he has on hand to keep himself from smelling Mikey. Scent seems like a minor sense to people who can’t grasp the depth of information you can get from what someone smells like. Frank feels oddly like he’s invading Mikey’s privacy.

Mikey takes his coffee with him when he wanders back to his room, leaving Frank alone with his bacon. He cooks it until it’s just barely done, then slaps it on a plate, leaving the grease in the pan for later. He’ll scrape it out once it’s cooled so he can cook his vegetables in it; it makes them easier to eat as he gets closer to the wolf.

He would eat the bacon straight from the pan if he could, but even though something in him roils to just bury his face in the still-steaming meat, like plunging his muzzle into a freshly dead deer, he knows he can’t do that without burning his face or hands. He spent enough of his childhood with a burned nose to remember not to make the same mistake again. But once he’s waited as long as he can, he picks up a soft slice and snaps it up, eating the whole thing in a few bites. Most people are horrified by limp bacon, but Frank needs his meat as close to raw as possible. That’s the only way it’s truly satisfying.

The rest of the day is pretty much normal. Mikey goes to work, so Frank spends most of the day alone. He watches TV and plays video games, and resists the urge to go bury his face in Mikey’s sheets. It’s actually pretty sweet, and less scary than he expected. At home, there was always a level of tension, with everyone pretty much barricaded inside for the whole week. It’s less cramped here, definitely.

For dinner, Mikey marvels at Frank making big thick burgers on the stovetop.

“You’re a fucking master, dude.” Mikey pokes at the deli sandwich he snuck from one of the trays set out at work. “It’s so not right you don’t eat meat during the rest of the month, you know that? Not when you cook like that.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Frank flushes a little, though, proud despite himself. He makes three burgers with cheese (as long as he’s breaking vegan, he might as well go all out, right?), and crafts two into masterpieces: a thick slab of meat on a bed of lettuce, with tomato and onion and fucking awesome peppers heaped on top. (He’s still _him_ even if he has to eat animals.) He eats those two for dinner, steadily and messily. They’re still pink inside and the juices drip down his chin—he’s too hungry to stop to wipe them away Mikey watches him more than anything, only taking sporadic bites of his sandwich. Frank knows he ought to be embarrassed, but the moon makes him run hard and hot. He’s always starving, and he knows that the third burger will be in his belly before he goes to bed. Calories burn away like nothing.

Once he’s done with the burgers, he leans back with a sigh, watching Mikey. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Huh?” Mikey looks down at his place and his half-eaten sandwich. “Yeah, uh, I guess.”

Frank just smirks. Once Mikey finally finishes feeding himself, they play a couple rounds of Halo. Usually Frank is pretty damn good, at least good enough to hold his own. But he’s distracted by Mikey’s smells, so close, and it’s harder and harder to focus on a screen when all he wants is to look at evergreen trees and brush on the ground. His digital self keeps crumpling while Mikey punches the air in triumph.

“Ha,” is all Mikey says when Frank finally gives up, tossing his controller to the ground before he goes back to eat the last burger. Frank’s pretty sure Mikey can tell that he isn’t at the top of his game. They’re evenly matched, really, and Mikey kicked his ass all over the place tonight. “I’m telling everyone that werewolves suck at video games.”

Frank flips him off. The downside to burning hot is burning out, and he’s exhausted way earlier than he would ever be considering going to bed on a normal night. But he’s used to it, so he just wishes Mikey a good night and heads to bed. He dreams about snow in the forest and Mikey running his hands through the thick fur on the sides of his face.

Everything gets more intense as the week goes on. It also gets harder. It’s harder to block out stimuli he wants to ignore, sounds in particular. Everything distracts him, even the vaguest thump causing him to lose his train of thought and snap his head towards the source of it. And the smells are so much more intense. Meat can’t preoccupy him from the scent of Mikey, a dark musky smell that makes him think of burying his nose in rich dark earth and mounting a desperate partner all at the same time. That’s under the true reek of unwashedness; anyone who ever thought Mikey smelled bad before ought to get a whiff of him now from Frank’s perspective.

“Seriously, dude,” Frank says on Wednesday, the day before the moon swells. “You need to fucking shower.”

“Fuck you.” Mikey flips him off, but after his morning coffee and Frank’s morning bacon (and sausages), the water starts up with a quiet hiss that Frank’s never heard before. It’s interesting. He can smell Mikey’s shampoo again, fresh for the first time in a week, and he smiles down at his mini-meat buffet. Soap next, brisk and clean, and then it’s just the water running. Frank finishes off his breakfast and sets the plate in the sink. He has to rinse it off, at least, or the scent of grease will drive him crazy all day. He’s going to refresh the pot of coffee when a new smell hits him hard, makes his knees buckle and his dick throb.

He almost drops the pot, overcome by the sudden urge to bolt for the shower, push Mikey up against the wall. He can smell Mikey’s come, and the wild part of him knows that means he’ll be lazy and easy, quick to hold and to fuck. God, he wants to fuck so badly, shove deep inside. He knows Mikey’s all clean now, and he wants to make him dirty, take that fresh-smelling skin and make it smell like _him_.

Frank growls under his breath, frustrated at himself and at the heady scent of Mikey and sex. He sets the pot on the counter and gropes at himself, squeezing his dick through his sweatpants. It feels so empty, and he knows coming is just going to make his erection go down. It won’t give him any satisfaction, won’t ebb the arousal so hot in his gut. But he can’t walk around all day like this, so he abandons the coffee and heads back to his room. He can still hear the water running, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about being caught.

He’s been doing this his whole life—or since puberty, at least—and it’s second nature by now to jerk off fast and hard. The moon makes arousal strong, but he won’t be satisfied until he finds a mate. At least, that’s what his mom tells him. He wouldn’t know; he’s only ever spent the change around his family, and some packs aren’t too fussy but…no. But now he’s around _Mikey_ , and he smells so damn good. Frank shudders when he comes; it’s been unsatisfying since he was thirteen, but it still aches every time to feel his insides still churning and _needing_ when he should have some kind of relief. He feels like clawing at the walls, snapping and fighting, and god, he wants to fuck. Mikey’s hips are slim, not great for mounting, but he could do it. Mikey would feel so good underneath him, soft flesh under his paws—

Frank shivers, trying to shake that thought, and he knows it’s time to grab the bag he packed before the moon started to rise. It’s getting harder to think like a human would, too difficult to follow the strands that lead from one thought logically to another. His head is starting to be a mess of words and senses, jumping so fast he can’t concentrate. It’s not human, and he needs to go.

He pulls his hoodie on and gets his shelter bag. His mom walked him through putting it together over the phone; she didn’t approve of him going to a shelter instead of coming home, but she wasn’t about to let him go in unprepared. He’s got a change of clothes, toothbrush, painkillers, a magazine in case he has to wait to check out, his manacles (hand-forged, steel inlaid with silver), and a prepaid phone so he doesn’t have to worry about smashing his real one.

Mikey is sitting on the couch and he still _smells_. It’s so good that the hair on the back of Frank’s neck prickles and he has clench his hand into a fist around the strap of his bag. “I’m going in.”

“Now? Shit.” Mikey looks over at him and Frank wants to pounce, bite, lick, mark, _no._ He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Yeah. I…I really have to go.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“ _No,_ ” Frank says, and his voice drops low, like a growl. Mikey flinches and looks kind of pissed, and Frank shakes his head. “Sorry, fuck. No. No, I’m fine.”

“I’ll see you, uh, Saturday, then?”

“Yeah.” Frank would love for Mikey to walk him to the shelter. It would be so easy to push him into an alleyway halfway there. He leaves before he does anything stupid.

The street is harder to make it down while he’s like this, but he manages. It takes everything he’s got not to lunge after a stray cat. It stares unblinking at him for a long moment, then hisses and scrambles away through the garbage cans.

The shelter is a block down and a few buildings over, and Frank can breathe again when he gets inside. It’s clean and quiet; he can hear the air running, everything being recycled and stripped of distracting smells before being pumped back into the lobby. There’s a desk on one side of the room, but there’s no one at it, so Frank heads back towards the double doors at the end. They seem normal, white and nicely made, but when he lifts his hand to push it, he has to pull back with a hiss. They’re silver enhanced, like his cuffs pumped up to the millionth degree. His hand tingles a little still, but he feels better knowing. Once he’s inside, he’s not getting out on his own.

“Sorry!” Frank smells him first, soap and dander and polish. He’s obviously an orderly, all dressed in white, and Frank isn’t sure who picked the hospital theme, but it’s a little unnerving. This guy, though, makes Frank’s belly settle a little. He’s got big arms and big hair, and looks out of place despite the uniform. Frank likes him, and the wolf likes him too. “Hi, welcome. Do you have a reservation?”

Frank is distracted, smelling him, trying to figure out the polish smell he’s sure he recognizes. He realizes vaguely that he’s been leaning towards this guy and sniffing him without answering his question. “I. Fuck, sorry. Yes. Uh, Iero.”

“It’s fine.” The guy waves his hand, “I’m used to it. If you’ll follow me, we can get you all set up.”

He pushes the door open and lets Frank through in front of him. There’s a line of lockers, and the guy opens up the first empty one. “You can leave your bag in here. We’ll keep the combination on record for you.”

“Uh, great.” Frank goes to put the bag in, then pauses. “I’ve got, um. My cuffs?”

“You shouldn’t need those,” the guy says. Frank wonders if he’s ever not cheerful. “But you can leave them outside your unit if you’d feel more comfortable.”

Frank nods and unzips the bag, digging the manacles out. He’s careful just to hold onto the outside, where there’s no silver. The bag fits easily into the locker; it’s much more generously sized than the one he had in high school. He feels better in here, calmer, even though he can still feel the wolf rising in his chest.

The guy locks the locker for him and shows him through another set of silver enhanced doors. Through these doors, Frank walks into a wall of strange smells, the scent of wolves he doesn’t know; it makes his shoulders tighten and a growl start to build in his throat. He has to be ready to fight, defend himself.

But he pushes it down, forcing himself to swallow the growl, and follows the guy to an open cell—“unit,” as they like to call it.

“If you need anything, there’s a call button right here.” The orderly taps the wall outside the cell, which is clever. Frank won’t be able to reach for it once he’s lost his hands. “ _Oh_ , and, uh, I’m Ray, I’ll be watching over you tonight.” He gives Frank an awkward little wave that would probably be charming when Frank wasn’t heavily under the moon.

Frank goes and leans against the wall of the cell, flinching when the door closes, sealing him in. He’s shaking a little, his muscles tensing and relaxing at random, preparing for the change. He strips, pulling off his shirt and pants and folding them neatly. There’s a box up high next to the door that Frank hadn’t noticed before, and he slides them in there and latches it shut. Naked in the empty room, all he can do is sit on the cool floor and wait.

His mom told him that the change would be more difficult alone, and once it starts, he knows she’s right. It’s harsher than it ever was before; surrounded by his pack, all of them changing together, it seemed smoother. This is messy, and it hurts more sharply than it ever has. Frank yowls and snarls up at the ceiling, incapable of shyness or restraint. He wouldn’t hold it in even if he could; no one can hear him in here, and it makes him feel a tiny bit better to vent his frustration.

The build-up is always the worst; the change itself happens so quickly that Frank’s never been sure _how_ exactly it happens. He just shifts, limbs and hair rearranging until he’s not himself any longer. Although being a wolf is, really, part of himself. It’s the sort of philosophical ponderings that don’t matter to animals, so Frank never ends up thinking about it.

Being in an unfamiliar place makes him nervous like this, and he paces the room a few times, snarling at the door and throwing himself at it. But it’s clearly not going to budge and there’s nothing in the room for him to destroy, so he curls up on the floor with his head between his paws, watching the door for any change.

Time passes differently like this; he has no real concept of it. He gets fed raw venison three times, which he snaps up greedily, and he sleeps most of the rest of the time. He can’t smell anything in the cell but himself and the meat; there’s nothing to raise his hackles, make him desperate to fight. He feels the same pricking under his skin telling him to _run_ that he’s always felt, but he’s so used to it by now that it’s mostly just like the vague inclination to tap his foot. It would be satisfying to do, but he’s hardly driven wild by the denial.

He wakes up on Saturday morning curled naked on the floor. His shoulders are aching from the uncomfortable position and he’s got a few self-inflicted scratches on his thighs, but other than that, he’s fine. He made it through.

*

After the moon, Mikey asks if Frank wants to go out with “friends.” Frank’s pretty sure this means he’s passed some kind of roommate test or leveled up or something. Mikey’s casual about it, but Frank is still nervous. He isn’t always good with other people’s friends; he looks like he should be, but once he gets out into the crowd, he tends to feel like he’s an awkward high school student again—in a pack that he can’t belong in. But the invitation means a lot to him, and he doesn’t want to turn it down. He wants to live a normal life, that’s why he’s here. And normal people go out to meet their roommate’s friends.

The club is loud, but Frank still finds out several things in the span of a few moments. Mikey has a magic gift for making lines go away and bouncers smile, so they get in without trouble or waiting. He sticks close to Mikey, following him as he weaves through the crowd. The band is playing so loudly that Frank can feel them in his teeth, but they’re good. Great beats, a strong guitarist. Frank’s nodding along despite himself as he works his way after Mikey. There’s a table against the wall where Frank sees no one he recognizes, but everyone at it waves at them, so Mikey must.

“Mikeyway, you have been hiding from me,” declares a short guy with a lot of bangs, a lot of eyeliner, a lot of neon, and a lot of teeth. He’s just a _lot_ , and it makes Frank feel small and out of place. “And you’ve been hiding a friend.”

Frank wants to back away, disappear into the crowd, but Mikey rests his hand low on Frank’s back. It feels so quietly good, but Mikey is guiding him forward, moving him to stand at the table. “This is Frank. New roommate.”

“You’re _Frank_?” The guy is clearly delighted, and he elbows a much taller but no less neon guy out of the way to get in next to Frank. “I’m Pete. I’m _so_ into your cause, man.”

It doesn’t take long for Frank to realize that this is the friend Mikey mentioned the first time they met, and not much longer than that to figure out that when Mikey says “friend,” that’s not all he means.

 _Oh,_ Frank thinks, watching the way Pete curls his fingers in Mikey’s front pocket, like they’re his pockets too, and how Mikey leans over him—not like he’s looming, but like a swayed tree bending to meet a fellow. Like they should fit together.

Frank has no reason to be jealous. But he’s bitterly so, enough that he has to fight back a growl even though it’s still a good two weeks before the moon will start to rise.

There are enough people standing around the table who all know each other and all know Mikey that Frank feels like the weird kid in the cafeteria again. He was the weird kid everywhere in school, but it was in the cafeteria that he felt it most. He feels it again now, and he wishes he could go wait in the bathroom for it to be over, like he eventually started doing in high school. At least Pete hasn’t tried to single him out.

The band finishes not too long after, and the DJ takes over with some stale remixes. Frank bounces his weight from foot to foot idly, more out of a lack of anything better to do than any appreciation for the music. He can’t seem to keep from watching the little smile from Mikey that follows Pete’s raucous laugh like there’s no other logical progression.

“Toro!” Someone at the table calls out, sticking a hand in the air. Frank looks over his shoulder and blanches. It’s the orderly from the shelter, dripping with sweat; Frank suddenly realizes what the smell he couldn’t identify at the shelter was: guitar polish.

“Hey.” Ray comes to lean against the table next to Frank. Frank tries to keep his eyes trained on the glasses. Not that he’s recognizable. He’s sure that Ray has plenty of werewolves he meets, working there. He wouldn’t recognize his face.

“This is my roommate Frank.” Mikey takes a sip from his drink.

“Frank. Hey.” Ray smiles at him and offers his hand. Frank takes it with a weak smile.

The rest of the group falls into a few side conversations, and Frank is left standing next to Ray in silence. Frank glances over at him. “You guys sounded really good.”

“Yeah? Thanks.” Ray has an honest grin that makes Frank feel like they’re already friends even though they’ve barely met. It’s enough to set him at ease, so he jumps when Ray follows up with, “How’ve you been? It’s almost that time of the month, right?” Frank flinches and Ray’s eyes get huge. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—you were there. They know, don’t they?”

“They know,” Frank says, and doesn’t add _and if they didn’t, they do now_. Ray seems like too nice of a guy for that. “I just. I don’t usually talk about it in public.”

“Ah.” Ray nods. “My cousin is the same way. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“Your cousin?”

“She’s a beta in a pack out in Connecticut.” Ray smiles, like it’s a totally normal thing to say. Frank’s staring, he can’t help it, and Ray misinterprets it. “I’ve got a little bit in me, yeah, but it doesn’t really make a difference. It’s not enough to cause trouble, you know, so I figured that I should help someone out. Right?”

“Yeah.” Frank licks his lips and doesn’t know quite how to express how he feels about it. “That’s…that’s right.”

Ray pauses to drink, then turns back to Frank. “So, how are you liking the neighborhood?”

Frank has a few canned responses about it being nice, a good change, the kind of things he tells his mom when she reminds him how much easier it would be at home. He’s distracted by the way Pete’s fingers are wriggling inside Mikey’s pocket; they seem to be getting closer and closer together, even though Pete’s eyes are on the pretty redhead next to him. Mikey only has eyes for Pete, and it makes Frank’s stomach turn over. If it was closer to the moon, he doubts he would be able to suppress a low growl. As it is, he has to just watch, a little hungry, before forcing his eyes back to Ray.

“It’s nice to meet people.” He smiles a little bit. “Mikey has a lot of friends.”

Ray is giving him a look that makes Frank feel uncomfortably like _CRUSH_ is written across his forehead. He nods and glances over at Pete and Mikey himself. “Yeah. He’s, uh, a friendly guy.”

Frank watches Pete and Mikey hit the dance floor, grinding up together in a mass of bodies. In a sickly masochistic way, he wishes he could smell them right now. Musk and arousal and body odor, all of it mixing with sweat and the harsh headachey scent of alcohol, he can almost imagine it on the back of his tongue. At least that would make him feel closer.

“Hey, uh,” Mikey wraps his arm around Frank’s shoulders when he gets back to the table. “Can you get a ride home?” Pete is leaning in to whisper in the redhead’s ear, but his eyes glint back towards Mikey. Frank swallows hard.

“I’ll give him a lift,” Ray says, and it sounds like a door closing.

“That’s great. Ray, you’re great.” Mikey laughs and squeezes Frank’s shoulder, and then he’s gone.

*

Against all odds, they settle into a routine. Frank spends a week or two at a time working on a construction site or delivering packages across town through an AWA-funded agency, and Mikey works at his office. The moon never gets better, but it does get easier. He adapts to the scents, finds ways to distract himself. Gerard recommends a set of DVDs that were intended to keep dogs entertained while their owners are away during the day: wilderness scenes, bird calls and squirrels running across the scene. They actually do work, and he puts them on when the moon gets too close or when Mikey disappears into the shower. He can still hear, still smell, but at least his lupine side has something else to pay attention to.

Ray is usually working when he gets to the shelter, and it’s weird how easy that is. He knows how to treat Frank calmly but forcefully when he comes in, but he’s all smiles when Frank’s getting ready to leave. They’ve gone out to breakfast a few times when Frank wakes up around the same time Ray is coming off his shift. The coffee shop at the end of the street has good bagels and a vegan scramble that makes Frank feel like himself again.

“I want another tattoo.” Frank fiddles with his fork while he waits. Ray watches him over a bagel slathered with vegetable cream cheese.

“What are you going to get?”

“I dunno.” Frank puts the fork down, then scratches at his arm, rubbing over his other tattoos for some sort of inspiration. Nothing comes. “You just get the itch sometimes, y’know?”

“Nope,” Ray says, with a stupid little grin that deserves to be flipped off. Frank is happy to oblige. “Don’t you need to be respectable for, uh, your job?”

“Not really.” Frank shrugs. He’s always wiped out, a little punchdrunk the morning after the full, but he woke up this morning with a _drive_ that sat deep in his gut, somewhere close to his spine. He knows he needs to get inked, though he never does seem to know what. “I can’t really make myself more unemployable than I was born.”

“If Osbourne passes, maybe you’ll want to be a banker,” Ray points out. Frank snorts and Ray kicks him under the table. “I’m serious, man. My cousin, she says that if it passes, she wants to be a teacher.”

Frank doubts that anyone will let wolves work with kids, even if Osbourne passes with flying colors, but it makes him think about himself. He doesn’t have a dream like that; it never occurred to him, really. He’s always thought that there’s something _better_ than this, but he hasn’t been thinking about what that is.

“I want to be a rockstar,” Frank says finally.

“Sure you do, honey,” the waitress says, catching the end of their conversation while she sets his scramble in front of him.

“You don’t have to wait for that.” Once he’s done laughing, Ray grins over at Frank. “You could come jam with me, you know. If you don’t suck, maybe I’ll put you in the band.”

Frank hasn’t played guitar since he was a young teen, taking Guitar Lab for his required “cultural” credit in high school. His mom didn’t think that something as expensive and breakable as a guitar belonged in a house packed with werewolves. He forgets sometimes that he has his own place, and he can do things his mom never approved of.

“Maybe I will.” Frank scoops up a forkful and grins over at Ray. “Wait and see.”

*

Pete comes over and brings a whole crowd on Saturday, and Frank is okay with that. He can handle it, even though he’s barely a week from the moon and his skin feels so tight it might split. He hasn’t pulled the meat products out of their special place in the freezer yet; he puts it off for as long as he can, but the lentils he had for dinner tasted like glue and they’re sitting just as heavy and sticky in his gut. He can smell sweat and alcohol and gallons of perfume, but he’s _fine_ , until Mikey and Pete disappear and Frank is left alone with a crowd of people (tall people, mostly, Frank doesn’t know how a midget like Wentz got such tall friends) that he doesn’t know.

It feels stupid to cower in his room, hiding in his own apartment, but Frank can’t be out there any longer. Not when he starts to smell something more under all that mess.

His dick is a fucking traitor, and he reaches down to squeeze himself, like a warning. Mikey and Pete are—he doesn’t know what they are, because Pete keeps saying he doesn’t do dick, even as he’s got his hand halfway into Mikey’s jeans, but they’re doing something that’s hot and thick in Frank’s nostrils, filling his head with sex. It’s because it’s Mikey, he knows it has to be, there’s no way he could pick out a subtle scent with such painful accuracy before the moon is really on him. But he’s memorized Mikey, every particle of him, and Mikey is the first thing that he can smell. He smells him sometimes even when the moon is waning, though he might be imagining that.

Pete’s smell is one he doesn’t know as well, but now that it’s twining with Mikey’s, he knows he’s not going to forget it. He wished Pete smelled rank, as sour as Frank’s mouth tastes right now. But he’s cleaner than either of the Ways, on the skin level, at least. Frank rolls over onto his front, trying to bury his face in his pillow and ignore the smell, ignore the way his hips hitch when his dick presses into the bed.

Frank groans, more frustrated than turned on, and he could blame this on the coming moon. That wouldn’t be fair, even if it would be easy. He can only blame himself, a stupid crush, and maybe Pete fucking Wentz for being, in equal parts, an asshole and a sweet guy. Frank mostly thinks he’s an asshole.

“Fuck,” Frank grumbles, rolling back over onto his back. His hard-on is not going away anytime soon, and he can’t ignore the painfully familiar scent of Mikey and sex. He isn’t actually under the moon, so he can still get some pleasure from jerking off. It’s almost worse that way; when he’s so desperate he can’t help himself, there isn’t a lot of room for guilt. This is different. He could let it go, but he won’t.

He gropes himself through his jeans, slow and lazy, much smoother than he feels. If Pete doesn’t do dick, then Mikey must be the one on his knees. Frank’s dick twitches in his grip and he can’t go _this_ slow, not when he can hear the party outside and still smell Mikey. He’s desperate, but he doesn’t want to be interrupted. It’s bad enough when Mikey snickers at him during the week of the moon or pointedly turns on some deafening music when Frank’s in the middle of getting off. But a group of people he doesn’t know?

Frank can’t get off thinking of Pete; that would just be _weird_. But when he thinks of Pete’s dark tattoos, how Mikey must have tasted them, he can’t help but insert himself in there. Mikey’s tongue would feel so good on his belly, tasting his swallows. Mikey’s got to have a thing for tattoos, the way he rubs over Wentz’s ugly-ass sleeves. Frank doesn’t think of his ink as a work of art, exactly, but he’s pretty sure it’s better than that. Mikey would probably like them; he could discover ink in surprising places, kissing his way up Frank’s thighs to see what’s been drawn there.

He’s got his jeans open and his hand warm and sure around his cock. He jerks off so much he thinks his hand is going to fall off sometimes, but it never gets old. At least, it hasn’t yet, and when it feels so fucking _amazing_ to wriggle half out of his jeans so he can grope his balls, he doesn’t expect it to get less awesome in the future. He strokes himself nice and steady, like Mikey would do it. Not that he knows, really, but he thinks that Mikey is probably sensible about pleasuring himself. Neat and easy, leaving enough room for improvisation when he gets close. Frank wonders if Mikey touches Pete like that; he hopes not, because Pete doesn’t fucking deserve it. Frank can’t count how many times he’s walked in on Pete with a pretty redhead (and sometimes blonde, same girl, different hair) up against the wall, fingers deeper into her jeans than they’ve probably ever gone into Mikey’s. Pete just winks at him and Frank knows Mikey’s seen it, has heard him mutter “you taste like a lemon drop” when he kisses Pete hello afterwards. Mikey obviously doesn’t care, but Frank hates that Pete doesn’t have to choose. If he had Mikey, he wouldn’t want to get it anywhere else.

It’s not exactly hot thoughts, but his hand’s been going this whole time, so it’s not hard to switch back to what he really wants to think about. Mikey, on his knees; Mikey’s long fingers; Mikey smirking at him over his glasses. He doesn’t even try to get some variety in, go with the usual spread of disconnected images. He doesn’t think about vampires or Ray’s thick thighs, Gerard’s mouth, tacos, or the ass of some guy in a porno, it’s just _Mikey_. He bites down on his lip to keep from moaning; he’s sure the party is too loud to hear him, but he’s still self-conscious. It’s probably weird, that both of the people actually hosting the party are hidden away getting off; he just wishes they were getting off together.

Frank picks up the pace, letting precome help him get a better glide because he can’t keep steady anymore. This moon is going to be a rough one, he can already tell, he’s so fucking hot. He should move, but who knows if he’d attach to someone new? It’s hard to be so close, living in each other’s pockets and _smelling_ it all without getting attached. But it’s more than that for him; he thinks about Mikey’s taste in action movies, the faces he makes when he plays Halo, his weird retro wrestling obsession, nothing that anyone in their right mind could find attractive but he _does_ , Jesus.

It’s Mikey’s stupid wrinkled yoga pants, stretched out to the point that Frank is pretty sure they belonged to Gerard once, that are in the front of Frank’s mind when he finally comes. He keens, letting himself have a moment to squeeze his eyes shut and feel the wet, sticky heat of his own come on his belly before he sits up and grabs a Kleenex.

He makes it back to the party before Mikey or Pete do, so he gets to watch the bedroom door open and see Mikey sneaking out, like no one would have noticed. He’s rumpled, and he smells like sex from all the way over here. Pete follows after him, and Frank watches them kiss against the doorframe while his own hand balls into a fist at his side.

*

A few weeks later, Frank turns down the invitation to go out with Mikey and friends and calls his mom. It’s probably one of the lamer things he’s done, but he can’t watch their whole messy dance again. Besides, he genuinely wants to talk to her. Living away from home is good, just as good as he thought it would be, but that doesn’t mean he forgets how warm it was to know his mom would always be just across the kitchen table. She’s at the table when he calls, she tells him, making a grocery list for the week. He wishes he was there with her.

“How’s everybody?” He’s sitting at his own kitchen table with a veggie pita. It isn’t quite the same; his uncle would probably be coming by to remind him how unnatural it is for a wolf to eschew meat.

“Fine, baby, fine.” There’s a long pause that he knows is her taking a drag from her cigarette, even though she’d deny it to her death. “Nicky’s heading back to school on Tuesday.”

Frank snorts and takes a bite of his pita. “I bet he’s excited about that.”

“Well, I’m excited.” Frank can hear his mom snickering, and god, he loves her. He knows he needs to go back and visit her, but there’s a gravity to her; he’s afraid that once he goes home, he won’t be able to leave again. “Are you ever going to bring that boy of yours around?”

“He’s my roommate, Mom. It’s different.” Frank sighs. “You don’t bring your roommate home to meet your mom.”

“Why not?” Another pause for a drag, and Frank wishes he could bring Mikey home to meet her. He thinks she’d like him. And Mikey has gravity too.

“It’s just not what you do, Mom.” Even though Frank would be okay if it was.

He finishes talking to his mom and flips the television on so the apartment doesn’t feel so empty. Mikey’s still not home after three hours of weird old TV shows, so Frank just heads to bed. He leaves the front door unlocked, so Mikey will be able to get in even if he’s too drunk to figure out his keys. The two of them together usually have a hard enough time getting the door open; it’s his good deed for the day.

He’s woken up after a few hours of sleep by Mikey crawling into bed with him.

“I. Fuck, Mikey?” Frank flinches when Mikey pushes his cold feet against Frank’s warm ones, but his heart is already pounding. Mikey is pressing in close, close enough that Frank can smell beer and sweat even with his ordinary human nose. “You okay?”

“They’re moving in together,” Mikey mumbles, still trying to move closer. His lips brush against Frank’s bare shoulder, and Frank has to physically bite his tongue to keep from making a sound. “Fucking. _Assholes._ ”

“Who is?”

Mikey looks up at him, and now that Frank’s eyes are adjusting to the dark, Mikey looks drunk and distraught. Just crushed. “Pete.”

He sounds so bitter that Frank almost wants to celebrate, because he’s never been able to think Pete’s name without bitterness. But that’s not Mikey. “But, I thought—“

“Yeah. Me too.” Mikey groans and leans in, pushing his forehead against Frank’s. He’s so close that Frank can practically taste the beer on his breath. Close enough to kiss or tear out his throat. “I’m such a fucking idiot. I’m a _dope._ ”

“Mikey, c’mon.” Frank presses back against Mikey and rests a hand on his hip. It seems like it should be okay, since Mikey is the one who crawled into _his_ bed. “He’s the asshole here.”

“He’s not.” Mikey is quiet, and Frank has never heard him sound like this. “They’re. God, they’re amazing together. It was never me.”

“I’m sorry,” Frank says, even though he has no idea what’s going on.

“Can I stay?” Mikey blinks at him. Frank doesn’t know how he could deny something like that, even though he knows that he should. Mikey is upset and alone, and he’s in Frank’s _bed_ , like how many daydreams?

“Yeah. Of course.”

Mikey sighs, melts a little against Frank like he’s finally able to relax. It’s like he feels safe here, with Frank, though Frank knows he shouldn’t think like that. Mikey just doesn’t want to be alone, and Frank is the only one here. Frank is the only one.

They both fall asleep, arms wrapped around each other. Frank should have given the bed up to Mikey, or at least stayed awake. Instead he pushes in close, resting his hand on Mikey’s lower back and flushing when Mikey sighs. When Frank wakes up, Mikey is pressed against the wall, curled up like a hedgehog protecting its belly. Frank sighs and climbs out of bed. It seems wrong to stay, now that Mikey will be waking up and realizing that Frank took advantage of his loneliness to get cuddles.

He goes to get the coffee started, and has just hit the button when the front door slams open.

“He’s still asleep.” Frank goes over to sit at the kitchen table while Gerard unwraps himself, peeling off gloves and scarves.

“Is he okay?”

“I don’t know.” Frank can only be honest, and Gerard frowns. “I don’t even know what’s going on.”

Gerard sighs and drops the pile of winter gear onto one of the chairs and sits in the other. “Pete’s moving in with Ashlee.”

Frank’s the first to admit that he doesn’t really know Ashlee outside of being the girl he sees Pete cuddled up in corners with. Still, his vague understanding of their relationship is shaken. “I didn’t even know they were…together.” Besides the sex, of course, but Mikey seemed so okay with all of it. “I thought he and Mikey—“

“It’s a fucking mess,” Gerard says. He’s not happy, and Frank isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. They’re friends, sure, but when it comes to Gerard and Mikey, there’s no sense trying to get between them. “It sucks all around, and it’s sucked for months, and Mikey’s too stubborn to accept that.”

Frank doesn’t know what to say to that. The coffee machine beeps and he goes to pour each of them a mug. Gerard is done with his second cup by the time Mikey comes out of the bedroom. He’s bleary when he walks into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes, but as soon as he spots Gerard he groans.

“Oh, fuck no.” Mikey turns like he’ll head back to bed then turns back to them. “I don’t want to fucking hear it.”

Gerard glares at him, and Frank has never seen either of them like this before. “You think I wanted to hear it at four o’clock in the fucking morning?”

“Fuck you.” Mikey scowls and Frank is pretty sure he really doesn’t want to be here while this is happening. He’s got no place in this discussion.

Frank takes his mug and goes back to his room, closing the door behind him. He can still hear the low rumble of Mikey and Gerard’s voices, and then more clearly when they raise their voices. Gerard is pissed; Frank’s hearing a lot of shit that he probably shouldn’t. Part of him feels like he should have known all along. Then maybe he could have told Mikey that this was only going to go south, but that would have been nothing but pure jealousy.

“You never _knew_ what you were,” Gerard is saying, though he has to be shouting it if Frank can hear him that clearly. “I fucking told you to sit down and talk to him, figure out what the fuck—“

“Because that’s so fucking romantic,” Mikey snaps back. Frank’s stomach flips over when he hears how upset he sounds. “I thought…I knew we weren’t exclusive-exclusive, but I didn’t expect him to just push me out entirely.”

Frank sighs and stretches out on his bed, closing his eyes and trying to block out the sounds. If he really wanted to block them, he could get his headphones and turn up his iPod until it’s not even a problem. He doesn’t.

After Gerard leaves, Frank waits to come out until he can’t stand it in his room any longer. Mikey is sitting on the couch, mashing buttons. He doesn’t play Xbox so intently unless he’s really pissed. Frank sits next to him, silently. Mikey doesn’t say anything until his character dies.

“Sorry about last night.”

“It’s cool.” Frank shrugs and scratches at his forearm.

Mikey looks over at him. He looks exhausted, and Frank’s not sure if it’s from the late night, the thing with Pete, or the talk with Gerard. “I didn’t mean to invade your space. That’s all.”

“Seriously, it’s fine.” Frank isn’t sure how to convey how fine it is without sounding like a huge creep. “It was fine.”

“I’m really a dumbass sometimes.” Mikey licks over his teeth and snorts. “I guess I should have put that in the ad.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “You’re not being a dumbass now.”

Mikey quirks one eyebrow. “Are you saying I’m a dumbass usually?”

“I’m saying sometimes you’re a dumbass.” Frank wrinkles his nose back at him. “But not now. So give yourself a break, okay?”

“Maybe I will.” Mikey leans back against the couch and smiles over at Frank. “As long as it’s on the recommendation of the great Doctor Iero.”

“Sure thing.” Frank smiles too. “I can write you up a prescription if you want.”

“Write one for Gerard too, while you’re at it.” Mikey picks his controller back up and shakes his head.

*

Frank isn’t wild with the moon when it happens. He usually is, in his fantasies, because he can’t imagine having the courage any other time. He always thought he’d need the desperation to make himself go for it, a pulsing under his skin that insists there is no other time. If the moon isn’t on him, how could he overcome his nerves to actually make a move? Frank’s never been one to back down from a fight, but he’s not the king of self-confidence either, especially not where Mikey is concerned. Frank’s known since the beginning that he’s pretty much screwed, as far as romance goes. It’s a few months after Pete. The dust has settled, mostly; there’s still some tension when they end up in the same bars, the same parties, but Mikey is able to smile at him and Ashlee now. He doesn’t lock himself in his room anymore either, and Frank thinks things are okay.

It turns out to be easier than he ever thought to come up behind Mikey in the kitchen, rest his hands on his hips. Mikey smirks and looks over his shoulder. “Can I help you?”

“You’re.” Frank licks his lips, but he’s not nervous. He just has to smile. “You’re so awesome. You know that?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Mikey laughs and turns back towards Frank, so close. There’s no way that he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. Mikey always knows. “My roommate is an asshole.”

“Fuck you.” Frank can’t stop grinning. He leans in until his nose brushes against Mikey’s. Mikey gasps, and Frank’s breath catches too. “Can I?”

There’s a smirk tugging at the edge of Mikey’s mouth and he rubs his nose against Frank’s. “Can you what?”

Frank waggles his eyebrows. “Fuck you?”

Mikey kisses him. Frank’s imagined it so many times that it seems impossible reality could ever match it. But it so totally does. Mikey’s lips are a little dry, but then so are Frank’s. They’re warm, rough, and when he sighs against Frank’s mouth it’s everything he’s been waiting for. He spent so long watching and waiting; he’s finally going for it.

“C’mon.” Mikey nudges him back, and Frank has to side-step him to move the boiling pot off the heat and turn off the stovetop. “I would have remembered that,” Mikey insists. Frank just kisses his cheek.

They go to Mikey’s room, because Frank’s is still a nest of laundry. Mikey’s isn’t much better, really, but the bed is at least mostly clear when they fall on it. Frank grunts, but Mikey is lying in bed next to him and that demands attention. He pulls Mikey in closer to kiss him again, licking into his mouth. He feels incredible, and Frank doesn’t need any special scents to know that Mikey is wanting just as badly as he is.

“Can I?” Frank is already working his hand down to rest on Mikey’s belly, finger tips sneaking under the waistband of his jeans. It’s forward and too fast, but he doesn’t want to _wait_ any longer. And Mikey nods, arching his hips up. So he’s probably sick of waiting too. Frank flicks the button open on his jeans and peels them open. Mikey’s half-hard already, and Frank wraps a hand around him to pull him free of his jeans and boxers. He’s got a nice dick, not too long or too short. It suits him, which seems like a stupid thing to say, but it really is a nice dick. Frank bets they won’t really have much patience later, so he strips out of his own clothes before he presses up against Mikey. He just plays for a while, stroking Mikey’s cock and watching the funny faces Mikey makes when he moans or when Frank gets his thumb at just the right spot under the head.

“You’re such a fucking dick,” Mikey says through a low pant, thrusting his hips up into Frank’s touch. “Stop being such a tease.”

“You’re the tease,” Frank counters. Mikey’s dick is so warm in his palm; he almost doesn’t want to do anything else with it. It’s nice to have someone else to feel after so long, and there’s no one he’d rather have. “You made me wait so long.”

“I didn’t make you do shit, asshole.” Mikey thrusts up into his hand. “You could have asked me anytime.”

“Yeah, sure.” Frank licks his lips and leans in to go after Mikey’s neck. He remembers where he used to see hickeys; hopefully that’s the last time he’ll follow Pete Wentz’s example in bed. This time it’s definitely the right choice. Mikey moans and his hips falter when he thrusts up. Frank tightens his grip, gives him a smoother stroke. “God, Mikes, you feel incredible.”

“Shit.” Mikey watches Frank through heavy-lidded eyes, working himself through Frank’s hand. Frank wants it to last and wants it to be finished all at the same time; he doesn’t know what to feel because it’s all so good. “Frankie, please, c’mon.”

Frank presses in closer, kissing up from Mikey’s neck to his jaw, then the corner of his mouth. He shifts so that his thigh is between Mikey’s. He moves his hand away to slide up Mikey’s shirt to thumb at his nipples. Mikey grinds up against his thigh with a gasp, leaving a wet smear. Frank can smell it, and it’s incredible. He can’t help but imagine how entirely overwhelming it would all be if he was under the moon after all. But he wouldn’t trade this for anything; the desperation of the moon is incredible, but this slow, lazy sex is unlike any sex he’s had before. He’s all coiled up inside, tensed like he’s about to pounce, but he’s savoring the anticipation of it all.

“God, Frankie, I can’t take this.” Mikey moans, thrusting hard against his thigh. “Give me something, fuck.”

“Give and take,” Frank mumbles against Mikey’s skin, slurring the words amongst sweat and fine hair and maybe a few freckles. “Tell me.”

Mikey laughs, and Frank loves that. It makes him shiver; he knows it’s a bizarre thing to get turned on by, but Mikey’s weird little squawky giggle goes directly down his spine, because sex is _fun_. “Fucking blow me, Iero.”

And that’s a totally legitimate thing to be turned on by, so Frank doesn’t feel embarrassed by his low groan or the way his hips buck up. He doesn’t say anything, just obeys, kissing down Mikey’s chest and belly because he can’t _not_ taste. He tastes like sweat all the way down, but the skin is sweeter and darker when Frank starts nosing at the coarse hair that starts under his navel. The taste is thicker on his tongue, like the thickness of Mikey’s cock when he sucks it into his mouth.

“Oh, shit.” Mikey’s thighs tense up, and Frank feels successful. He hasn’t given a lot of head, but he’s pretty sure Mikey isn’t expecting too much. He sucks hard, wraps his hand around the base, lets Mikey wriggle a little bit under him—from side-to-side, no thrusting. He doesn’t pull off when he starts to taste bitter precome, not until Mikey makes a stifled sound that Frank has spent way too many moons trying to ignore. He jerks Mikey the rest of the way, watching come dot his belly. It’s a marking, and even though the moon is still dark, Frank’s wolf stirs.

He’s already onto his knees, jacking his cock, when he manages to gasp, “God, can I?”

Mikey knows what he means, though, and he still moans and nods, stretching his arms up over his head, making him longer and leaner and Frank doesn’t know how he’s supposed to resist. It doesn’t take long for him to come, watching Mikey like that, and then he gets to watch his come splatter on Mikey’s pale belly and chest, their releases mixing together. Frank admires the pattern for a long moment before he settles down on the bed next to Mikey.

“Nice,” Mikey says. Frank snickers and kisses Mikey’s shoulder. “No, really. Nicely done.”

“Thanks.” Frank’s voice is a little rough, but it feels good, like stretching all the way from your muzzle to your tail. “It was, uh, nice to do.”

“I should probably go shower.” Mikey laughs when Frank groans and slaps vaguely at his belly. He smears his hand in come and wrinkles his nose, shifting to wipe it off on the sheets. “I know, same.”

“Why don’t you stay?” Frank licks his lips and closes his eyes, just enjoying the quiet. “Stay with me.”

“I still have a pile of shit at the office. Promised I’d come in to pick up the files before they lock up for the weekend. You’re lucky, you know that?” Mikey smirks up at the ceiling then glances over at Frank. “You don’t have to worry about any of this crap. You just get to show up and do your thing.”

Frank’s stomach twists and he swallows hard. It upsets his nice lazy feeling, but he can’t stay quiet. “It’s…it’s really not that great, Mikes.”

“Better than working in a fucking office.” Mikey snorts and rolls his eyes. “At least you get to hold onto something, some of yourself.”

“Yeah, that’s just what fucking temp work is like.” Frank intends to stop there, but he can’t. “Having to do the most mindless shit they’ve got is really freeing.”

“C’mon, dude, I was just.” Mikey shrugs, propping himself up on an elbow. “Pete says—“

“I don’t give a fuck what Pete says. You think this is all I fucking want out of life?” Frank has never wanted to be political. He’s never wanted to be _the werewolf_ , the guy that everyone expects to have the answers. But he can’t just sit here and listen to it. “I _can’t_ get a better job. I literally can’t. And if Osbourne doesn’t pass, I’m fucked. I’m never going to be anything more than a fucking part time drone.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Frank.”

“I don’t care how you meant it.” Frank’s already pissed now, and he can’t stop it. It’s the same way he got into all of those fights in high school, even if he thought that he left all that behind him. He can’t just turn it off. And now that it’s started, he really doesn’t want to. “You can’t just say shit, Mikey. I’m here, and I’m not a fucking case study for you.”

“I never _said_ that, jesus.” Mikey scowls at him, mouth twisting up. “You don’t have to freak the fuck out, man.

Frank pushes his hand into his hair. It’s still sticking up all crazy, fucked up from sex, and he can’t think about that right now, even though they’re both half-naked. It doesn’t feel like a sexy moment. “Maybe I do. I’m getting out of here.”

He crawls out of bed and pulls his pants back up, zipping them up and buckling his belt. He feels like a drama queen as soon as he makes it to the door, but it’s too late now. And he’s not willing to compromise on this. If Mikey’s going to be an obtuse fucking dick and parrot bullshit at him, like he has _any_ idea…Frank can’t deal with that.

He doesn’t plan to go to Gerard’s, but he can’t think of anywhere else to go, another place where someone might actually understand what he’s saying. It’s cold out, and he doesn’t have a fucking car, but he’s high on the anger. He pulls his skeleton gloves on when he’s halfway there, just starting to feel the cold.

Gerard’s buzzer always sticks, so Frank jams the button in hard with his thumb, folding an arm across his chest to fight off the cold.

It’s warmer upstairs, and Gerard makes a face when Frank opens the door. “Mikey called.”

“Asshole,” Frank says, and goes straight past Gerard to sit down on his couch. It’s old and ratty and sort of reminds him of the one in the den at home. This one belonged to Gerard’s grandmother, and Frank wants to have those kinds of roots again.

Gerard brings him a glass of orange juice, which is the weirdest way to try to calm somebody down, but the tart aftertaste actually does make him feel a little better. Frank tucks his feet up under himself and sighs. “Your brother is a dick sometimes.”

“Most people are.” Gerard sits on the other end of the couch and watches Frank. “What did he do?”

“He called,” Frank says.

“He told me what you did,” Gerard replies, arching an eyebrow. “You tell me what he did.”

“You’re a fucking guru, huh?” Frank rubs at his forehead, trying to figure out what he can say. “He doesn’t understand.”

“Uh-huh.”

Frank knows better than that, but he still growls under his breath at the non-answer. “He said I was lucky.”

Gerard sighs. “Mikes…he’s a dumbshit sometimes. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Frank gives Gerard a sideways look. He’s still so fucking angry; he can feel it under his fingernails, in the back of his throat like bile he can’t keep down any longer. “Everyone is. Everyone is a fucking idiot, and I don’t want to _deal_ with it anymore. Mikey and Pete and that whole crowd…they say the fucking stupidest shit, and even that isn’t as bad as everyone else in the goddamn world who listens to whatever some pundit has to say.”

He takes a deep breath, and Gerard stays silent for a moment, just watching, before he speaks. “No one wants to deal with assholes, dude.”

“You don’t get it.” Out of anyone Frank knows, Gerard is always the closest, right there on the edge, but he’ll never really understand. It will never be him. “I’m sick of being stared at and answering questions. I’m sick of being a fucking _example._ This is my fucking life, not an educational experience about your average American werewolf.”

Gerard watches him, and it feels like a long time that they just stare at each other. “I work really hard at this,” Gerard says, finally. “I…I fucking research and read everything I can find, and I always have to make sure I’m not saying stupid shit. I usually say something stupid anyway. You…you _are_ this.”

Frank shakes his head. “I don’t want to be.”

“Then don’t fucking be.” Gerard frowns a little bit. “You _aren’t_ a fucking…people aren’t going to stop looking at you. People are assholes. But you can do whatever the fuck you want. Fuck them.”

“I don’t…” Frank sighs, rough and exasperated, and uncurls his legs, planting his feet on the floor while he flops back. He has to close his eyes, just to keep his brain from hurting so much. “I don’t want them to think that shit about me either. About us. I want Osbourne to pass and to have something _better_.”

Gerard shrugs. “You’re the only one who knows, Frankie.”

Frank has never wanted to have to think about this shit. Gerard is the one who likes theory and articles and blogs that make everything make sense and make everything harder to live with at the same time. But he can’t live any life but his own, and after twenty-two years of living it, he might as well decide to make the most of it. He wants dreams like Ray’s cousin, plans for the future that don’t include jumping between whatever job will take him. He wants a guitar. He doesn’t live in his mom’s house anymore, and he needs more than this.

*

Frank still isn’t sure what he’s going to say when he walks back into the apartment. Mikey is in the kitchen, doing the dishes, and looks surprised when Frank comes in.

“I wanted to apologize,” Frank says, before Mikey can say anything. He’s a little surprised to realize it, but it’s true. Mikey gives him a suspicious look, like this might be some kind of trick.

“You do?”

“Yeah.” Frank smiles ruefully at him. “I was an asshole. Gerard and I talked about it, and—“

Abruptly, Mikey drops the pan he was washing into the sink. It clatters and splashes some dishwater up onto the counter. “Well thank _god_ for Saint Gerard, coming to save the day.”

Frank flinches and frowns. “What the fuck, Mikey? I’m trying to apologize.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have any reason to be sorry.” Mikey scowls and folds his arms across his chest. “ _I_ was an asshole. So _I’m_ sorry.”

“Uh.” Frank stares at Mikey. He has no clue what’s going on here, but it’s obviously something serious. “Thanks?”

“Whatever.” Mikey walks past him, out of the kitchen, dishes still piled up. Now Frank really doesn’t know what’s going on, but he’s not going to just let this lie. He follows Mikey into the living room.

“What the fuck, Way, seriously?”

Mikey grabs the remote and flips the TV on with a vengeful click. “I don’t know, maybe you should go ask Gerard what else is wrong with me.”

“Is that what you think I did?”

“What else would you do?” Mikey clicks through ESPN, Cartoon Network, DIY. Frank spots a Top Chef rerun that he knows Mikey would have stopped for, which means he’s not even looking at the channels. “Look, I get Gerard is the fucking _prince_ of werewolf theory and I would never compare to that, even if I wasn’t a fucking dumbass.”

“I don’t—“

Mikey is speeding through the local stations, eyes fixed but unseeing on the screen. “So, if you’re going to be moving in with him, just make sure you give me a month’s notice to sublet your room, I want to--”

Frank isn’t going to allow Mikey to make this into something so much worse than it is, when it’s obvious that he’s just as mixed up as Frank was. He grabs the remote from Mikey’s hand and switches the TV back off. “Will you fucking listen to what I have to say?”

“Fine.” Mikey leans back against the couch and stares up at him. His eyes are flat and blank behind his glasses, mouth set into a tiny slash. He made the same face every time someone brought up Pete for at least a month.

“I’m sorry, because I was an asshole. You were an asshole too, but.” Frank sighs and wrinkles his nose. “I care about you. And I want you in my life enough to be willing to tell you when you’re being an asshole and how to stop. When you’re being an asshole to me, I mean. Not on purpose. The other stuff I can’t really help with.”

He breathes hard, watching for a reaction. Mikey stares back at him, though his eyes aren’t flat anymore. It’s a long staring contest, but Mikey breaks it first. He smirks a tiny bit, biting his lip to keep the rest of his smile from escaping. “Say ‘asshole’ again.”

“ _Asshole_ ,” Frank repeats with great feeling, sitting on the couch next to Mikey and pulling him in for a kiss. It just feels like the right thing to do, and Mikey goes with it, licking over Frank’s lower lip. He pulls back, and kisses the corner of Mikey’s mouth. “Did you honestly think I was ditching you for Gerard?”

“S’not that crazy a thought.” Mikey makes a face and shifts so that his side is pressed against Frank’s. “He is, y’know, pretty good on the werewolf stuff front. And comic books. And you guys are always laughing.”

“And he’s got a great ass,” Frank adds. Mikey elbows him way harder than the comment warranted and Frank groans. “Ouch. Gerard’s a great guy, but he’s not really my type.”

“Why’s that?” Mikey smirks. “Do I smell better than him or something?”

Frank smirks back and leans in slowly to bury his nose behind Mikey’s ear and sniff exaggeratedly. “Yeah.”

Mikey shivers and shifts, wrapping a skinny arm around Frank’s shoulders. “Why is that so hot?”

“You think so?” Frank grins when Mikey flushes, and he snuggles in closer. “That’s another reason it would never work with Gerard. He doesn’t find this stuff hot.”

“He’s crazy.”

“Well, it’s a good thing, I guess.” Frank licks his lips. “He wouldn’t be much of an activist if he was fetishizing the people he claimed to want to help.”

Mikey groans softly and presses his forehead against Frank’s temple, his nose bumping Frank’s cheek. “Ugh, you’re going to talk like him now. You can’t bone him because you’re _becoming_ him, is that it?”

“That’s it.” Frank grins and turns to catch Mikey’s mouth again. He’s tired of talking.

*

Frank has to sleep on his belly for a while he waits for his tattoo to heal, and after that he just gets used to it. Mikey kept tracing his fingers over the edges of the wrapping when Frank first got home, investigating, but Frank waved him off.

“This is fucked up,” Gerard tells him every time he helps Frank get his lotion and ointment on. His hands shake a little bit with each touch, which makes Frank appreciate him all the more. “Who would do this to themselves?”

“You liked them well enough before,” Frank mumbles into the pillow, and Gerard snorts at him.

“Yeah, when they were all done and…there and shit. Not when you have fucking needle marks.”

“I don’t have needle marks.” Frank closes his eyes and smiles. “You’re imagining things.”

It feels like a longer wait than it actually is, and Ray gets pissed that Frank can’t play with them for over a month, counting the week he can’t really bend—because he can’t _play_ when he can’t bend—and then the moon, but once it’s over, it’s so worth it. Frank never wants to wear a shirt again ever.

“You’ll get arrested,” Mikey tells him while the wok starts smoking. “I’m not bailing you out.”

“There’s no law against going shirtless, Mikeyway.” Frank wrinkles his nose and shifts to check again if he can see them over his shoulder. He can’t, but it doesn’t hurt to try (until he wrenches his neck).

“There has to be a law against tattooed teacup wolves running around and scaring the children.” Mikey yelps when Frank grabs him around the waist, and counterattacks with an elbow jab to the ribs.

“Ow, fuck, you’re the monster here.” Frank grunts and backs away when Mikey waves him. It’s not like he’s never cooked shirtless, but Mikey’s worried about the hot oil splattering and ruining his perfect Adonis-like chest. Frank totally understands Mikey’s concern and makes sure to reassure him loudly and pompously at every possible opportunity.

Mikey snorts and flips him off. “Go admire yourself in the mirror some more, jackass, and let me work on dinner.”

“You’re not even going to give me a firm swat on the ass before I go? Some boyfriend you are.” Mikey reaches over and smacks at Frank’s hip. “Your aim sucks. And I meant with the spatula.”

“We cook our _food_ with this, dick.” Mikey laughs, but he does wave the spatula semi-threateningly in Frank’s direction until Frank leaves. He totally has to piss, whatever, and it’s not his fault that he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror after he washes his hands.

He has to use the magnifying mirror that Mikey uses to shave his sideburns to look at the reflection of his back, but it’s worth it. Under his Jack o’ Lantern is his fresh ink, a line of circles along his spine. It hurt like fuck, but it’s just what he wanted: the phases of the moon running down his back. He never wanted a tattoo that “marked” him. Any wolf bar is full of drunk weres with claw marks, silhouettes, full moons tattooed on their arms and necks—he never wanted any of that. This is different. The moon doesn’t control his life, but he can never deny that it’s a part of him.

Mikey calls from the kitchen, “I’ve got a stirfry pick-up for Vain Asshole?”

“I’ve got a _package_ for you, Mikeyway,” Frank shouts back. He hasn’t said _mate_ yet, because it’s kind of weird, and it doesn’t have to be like that. Maybe it isn’t, and that’s okay. But he’s pretty sure it is. He grins at himself in the mirror one last time then heads back into the warmth of the kitchen.

**Works inspired by this one:**

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